The Missing Eggs

Written by Joni Roberts

Traveler, storyteller, and public health advocate

So it is Easter weekend.

I had just come back from a concert, and the night was already shaping up beautifully. Good music. Good vibes. A little post-concert glow. All I needed to do was stop at the supermarket, grab a few things, go home, make an omelet, and call it a night.

That was the plan.

And as we all know by now, life is very committed to humbling me anytime I get too attached to a plan.

My friends and I, the same ones I had gone to the concert with, somehow all ended up at the same supermarket after the show. Clearly, we were all on the same wavelength. Hunger will unite people every time.

So we ordered some cane juice and then went into the supermarket to shop while we waited.

I grabbed a tray of eggs, some chocolates, and some ice cream bars. A little balance. A little nutrition. A little joy.

I came back out, put the groceries in the car, locked it, and went back to wait for the cane juice.

Now listen.

I am 99.9% sure I locked that vehicle.

That 0.1% is only there because I believe in humility and because clearly something happened.

Anyway, we got the cane juice, I got back in the car, and I was genuinely excited. I was already mentally seasoning the omelet. I was about to go home, make a fire snack, and go to bed happy.

And then I looked over.

My groceries were gone.

Gone.

The eggs were gone.

The chocolates were gone.

The ice cream bars were gone.

And just like that, my entire late-night meal plan was taken from me.

Now, I have been in Malawi for five months, and never, not once, have I had anything stolen from my car. There was no sign of a break-in. No shattered window. No dramatic evidence. Just absence. Just mystery. Just me sitting there trying to process how my eggs had entered the afterlife.

My friends came over like, “Dang, is there a guard around?”

And yes, technically there was a guard, but he was on the other side of the building, which is another way of saying he was spiritually present but not operationally useful.

So honestly, I think I just got got.

Bad luck.

Bad parking spot.

Limited security.

Easter weekend crime of opportunity.

And the thing is, I am not even really mad that they stole the eggs.

I mean, I am. But not in the deepest way.

Part of me is like, well… I guess they needed the eggs more than I did.

That tray had 30 eggs in it. That is not small money. Whoever took them can feed their family, or if they are entrepreneurial and slightly evil, they can resell them one by one and make a tidy little profit.

And honestly? I can respect a hustle more than I can respect the inconvenience.

What I am actually mad about is that I do not have my omelet.

That is the real crime here.

Yes, I wanted the chocolate, but I have a fridge full of chocolate, so I was going to survive. Yes, the ice cream bars would have been lovely. But what hurt me, deeply and specifically, was the loss of the omelet that was supposed to cap off my evening.

I had already emotionally committed to it.

I was ready.

Eggs, vegetables, maybe a little cheese if I was feeling festive. It was going to be excellent.

And now? Nothing.

Just cane juice, confusion, and betrayal.

There is, of course, a small and very human part of me that wanted to be petty. A tiny vengeful voice that whispered, “I hope they get sick when they eat those eggs.”

But that is not the dominant spirit.

Mostly, I just hope the eggs went where they were needed.

I really do.

Because if someone needed to feed their family, then okay. May the stolen eggs nourish you. May your breakfast be filling. May your conscience develop eventually.

But if you stole my groceries just to be chaotic? That is between you and God.

The other part that gets me is that I had been forgetting to buy eggs for days. Every time I went to the store, I would remember everything except the eggs. Then the one time I finally remembered?

I got got.

That part feels personal.

Like the universe said, “Oh, you want to be responsible tonight? That is adorable.”

So yes, that is my Easter story.

Not resurrection.

Not renewal.

Just the mysterious disappearance of 30 eggs.

And honestly, it does feel on brand that my holiday testimony would involve petty theft, mild inconvenience, and the loss of a meal I was really looking forward to.

I can laugh about it now, mostly because there is nothing else to do.

It sucks. It was not cheap. And I was really, truly looking forward to that omelet.

But c’est la vie.

Maybe I should have taken my butt straight home.

Maybe I should have carried the eggs with me while waiting for the cane juice.

Maybe I was simply chosen for a small Easter lesson in letting go.

The next day, I told Grandma about my stolen eggs. We laughed in complete disbelief, because really, what else was there to do?

And then, like the kind of plot twist I can fully support, she gave me eggs.

I made my omelet.

And just like that, all was well with the world.

So in the end, this became less a story about theft and more a story about recovery, community care, and a grandmother who understood that the real issue was never the money. It was the omelet.

And to whoever now has my tray of 30 eggs, my chocolates, and my ice cream bars: I hope the omelet was worth it.